


Contortion

by TuesdayTerrible



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Violence, Sexual Content, self abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-18
Updated: 2015-09-20
Packaged: 2018-04-15 08:06:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4599165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TuesdayTerrible/pseuds/TuesdayTerrible
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They mattered in a way she didn't really understand. The others seemed to fill something in him, something that Mycroft and her could never, despite their best attempts, contort themselves small enough to fit into.<br/>That was probably why she adored Mycroft, if she was honest with herself. Because unrequited love, no matter the type, was by far the most excruciating.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Facility

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as a one shot for Mollcroft- that has developed into something much deeper than I am a bit...overly sentimental about.  
> All mistakes our mine and mine alone.  
> I hope you enjoy regardless.

It's snowing the day Molly Hooper is called to take Sherlock Holmes to a private rehab facility just outside of London.

It's not surprising that the job should fall to her, not when John's busy with the new baby.

“He doesn't want Mycroft to know.” John had muttered quietly through the receiver. And the only thing Molly can think is. _He probably already does_. But she agrees because this is Sherlock and when would she not sacrifice everything for him?

So she makes arrangements to borrow Meena's car for the weekend and she takes her time getting ready. She slowly slides on her jumper, her cardigan and squeezes into her worn out jeans. She takes her time fastening the buttons of her jacket and pulling on her leather gloves. She takes a sideways glance at the mirror in her living area as she puts on a pink wool hat and wraps her pink and black scarf around her neck.

She doesn't look as much of a mess as she feels on the inside.

The last time Sherlock had done drugs, she had ended up striking him. In hindsight, that probably wasn't such a good idea. She didn't know how extensive his usage was, rather it was the fifth, fiftieth, or five-hundredth time. She had been so furious that he would waste and rot and ruin his beautiful, beautiful mind.

The fact that she was willingly going to see him in that state again made her feel anxious. That was not her Sherlock. Not that he was ever hers to begin with. But he was a shadow of the man she knew he was capable of being and that made her feel...unhinged for lack of a better word.

Get over yourself Molly. You're his friend first and foremost. You're a proper friend. Why do you think John asked you to do this otherwise? You count and this is important.

Her minds as made up as it's going to get, so she opens the door to greet the cold and begins the short trip to over to 221b Baker street.

By the time she reaches 221 B the snow is no longer falling peacefully. But a thin sheet has covered the stairs leading up to the door and Molly almost dreads tampering it. The snow look so beautiful untouched and makes the flat appear peaceful instead of what was likely going on inside.

Miss Hudson shows her in, a frown on her face and a worry in her step.

“Dear. I don't know if I would go in there.” She frets as she leads her up the stairs to his door. “He's really in a bit of a tiff. I have no idea what I'm going to get when I go up there. He broke my favorite tea pot earlier....” Her voice trails off as she stares at the door an odd look on the old womans face. “Well than.”

Molly instantly recognizes the look of loss on the old woman's face- though she cant place exactly what's made her feel that way. She means to ask her, she really does- but the sound of something else breaking beneath the door has Ms Hudson scurrying away mumbling.

She's not sure how long she stands out there listening to him mutter to himself, talking to John or Ms. Hudson, or whomever he images to be in the room with him. It's not uncommon when he's clean to talk when no one is there, or to think he's spoken allowed when its only been in his head. But it's different this time.

She can hear the barely repressed anger in each word he mutters. She's not frightened exactly, but she cant imagine she will be any good at getting him to agree to come with her. She finds herself wondering what John would do and is half tempted to call him when she hears him yell from the other side of the door.

“Dear god! I can hear you thinking through the bloody door! Would you just come in already?”

She blinks at the door and somehow feels as if she's been slapped, but she opens the door anyway.

“Sherlock.” She says slowly, and it sounds in a way as if she's tasting his name- as if whom she is speaking to isn't really him after all. He must hear it, because he barely spares her a look but he flinches regardless. It's subtle, but she sees it. The tightening in his shoulders, the way he goes rim rod straight at the sound of her voice- deductions aren't her thing- but she has a good feeling he probably wasn't expecting her.

“John called you than.” He says his voice a scuff, something between resentful and pained.

She's half tempted to apologize but finds herself unable to as she takes in the state of the flat. A lot of his wall art is missing, as well as John's chair, but the thing that hurts the most, is the skull from the mantel place is missing.

It shouldn't surprise her- that he got rid of the skull she gave him, it had been her means of flirting with him, giving him the skull of one of his first victories. A serial killer whom collected his victims teeth- the papers had literally named him the tooth fairy- it had taken Sherlock almost two weeks to solve it. He had been so please when he had “clipped his wings” so to speak. His sentencing was followed by a quick execution and it had been icing on the metaphorical cake.

She had many papers to file, and favors to give, but she had gotten it for him and through all the years- he had kept it. She hadn't known exactly, that he had kept it, let alone displayed it- until John had come around and she had become more acquainted with seeing it on the mantel of his flat.

She bites her lip as she stares at the bare mantel and a pain, bone deep seems to wash over her.

“So...you sold Billy than?”

“Molly.”

“Don't.” She interrupts him, not wanting to hear it, because she already knows nothing that is going to come out of his mouth is going to be good. “We should go. Now. Just...just get your shoes on.”

She doesn't watch him get ready, she just leaves out his front door and stands on the stairway and waits.

_You're being petty Molly Hooper. He got rid of Johns chair! Of course the skull would go. I bet the bloody thing got him quite a decent sum of money too... Just stop thinking about it. Its done now. It doesn't matter. It's fine. You're going to get him to the facility. Hopefully Mycroft will be none the wiser- or at least hell pretend to be none the wiser, Sherlock will get clean- John will visit- it will be fine. Everything's fine._

She still cant snuff the pang of betrayal in her chest, and it ignites all over again when he opens the door and greets her with cold, red eyes.

“I've disappointed you.” He says with next to no emotion.

The statement is so blatant, she finds a wave of hysteria wash over her and before she can stop herself, she bursts out laughing.

“No shit, Sherlock.” She manages between breathy laughter, wiping a hand at the tears that have now begun to burn her eyes. He's not very good with emotion, and for that she's glad- because if he was he'd know for certain that they weren't happy. But still. He's looking at her strangely, and she wonders briefly if he's talking to her in his head- thinking the words are being exchanged between them out loud.

She supposes it's to her advantage as she takes him by the wrist and leads him down the steps and into the passenger seat of Meena's car. By the time she's buckled him and she's seated herself in the driver seat his hands are under his chin in his signature mind palace pose. She sighs, taking one long look at him.

“You're...” She licks her lips as she starts the car, turning her attention to him. “You're wonderful you know? You have this gift that just....you excel and surpass everything and everyone I've ever met. Everyone I could ever hope to meet. And. We all...John, Greg...DI Lestrade-” she amends as she turns her attention to the road and pulls out of her parking space and onto the street. “Miss Hudson..and I. We all...we love you Sherlock. We...I...I hate to see you like this.”

Molly pauses turning her eyes towards him to see if maybe her words have reached him at all, even in all their in-eloquence. She clung to the fact, that maybe the sentiment would go through but Sherlock's expression is as blank as ever, eyes fixed on the windshield his fingers intertwined under his chin.

She sighs pressing on, resigning herself ot the fact that this is for her now- and not for him. Because all of her feelings have to go somewhere, she cant afford to keep them bottled up- because she knows what will happen if she does.

“I know..well...no I don't know, how difficult it must be for you. But..you aren't particularly a fan of change are you? I know it's inevitable. But. You grew quite fond of John. I remember...when you stayed with me how...how upset you were after seeing him at your grave. I know the marriage with Mary was hard on you initially- and I know the baby's birth has been an added stressor with Jim- I mean- Moriarty being active again and that there's been no leads and cases in general have been few and far between...but... that's no excuse for-”

“Molly.”

She blinks surprised that he was listening or that he heard at all, she turns her attention to him and those red, tired, dreary, dilated eyes are staring at her. She has to swallow before she manages to squeak out a “Yes?”

“Shut up.”

The words make her cringe as if she's been struck- and it gives her a bit of whiplash as she turns her attention to the road. Her knuckles turn white as she grips the steering wheel- but she doesn't say another word.  
.

They drive in silence for almost the entire drive, but when they are about fifteen minutes outside of the facility, she sees Sherlock twitch out of her peripheral. Its a small flinch of his fingers, but soon it grows to his shoulder, and than his lips- and soon it is accompanied by an onslaught of anger and curses that are whispered at first but eventually grow in length and volume.

Her hands that had relaxed against the wheel during the duration of the drive (after she had gotten over his abrupt rude dismissal) now grip the wheel with something akin to fear. She's not sure what triggered it- if the restlessness was coming on from withdrawal, or what it was exactly that ebbed his anger. His words didnt seem to make much sense- and she did try to listen to them, but his speech was even more rapid than normal and the words were all but snarled. She could hear Moriarty on occasion. Bloody bastard. A handful of Johns name, once even hers.

After a few minutes of this- his anger seems to wane and it grows deathly silent. It isnt until she glances over at him, his name on the tip of her tongue does she he's staring at her with angry eyes.

It happens so quickly she doesnt even time to scream as Sherlock jerks the steering wheel from her grasp the car turning sharply off the road.

“I told you turn the car around!” He screams at her, though she knows he's said no such thing, at least not aloud. She's managed to straighten and stop the car on the side of the road, as she stares around him. Another inch to the left the would have flipped down into a rather hazardous ditch, a few feet forward and they would have been bodies in the morgue at the speed they would have hit that barricade.

She's still getting her senses about her when she realizes he's still screaming at her.

Her hand collides with his face _hard,_ one time, with tears in her eyes and he falls back against the passenger seat silent.

Her hands tremble as she puts her hand on the wheel and steers the car back onto the road without another word. Every hateful thing she wants to scream at him is lodged in her throat and the (now) five minute drive seems to stretch out for an eternity. She cant look at him, but she does steal a glance out of her peripheral. She's proud of the hand print he wears on his face, and she finds she loathes herself a little bit for getting pleasure out of stunning him into silence.

 _Stupid girl_. She chastises herself. _He deserved it. He almost killed you both. He needed a lot more than one slap._

_Still_

  
She doesn't want to be the kind of person that strikes people, that's not who she is. That's not who she wants to be anyone, least of all him.

The facility is huge and she watches Sherlocks eyes shrink in the familiarity of the place as they pull up. He's been here before, she muses. Many times. His eyes turn to meet hers, and she thinks she sees fear in them and she's never wanted to reach out and comfort him more than right than. She physically yearns to run a hand through his sweat matted hair, and lace her fingers through the spaces of his own.

She bites her lip as she looks at him and realizes with a sudden onslaught of clarity that it wouldn't matter if she did, the gesture would be completely lost on him. He was much farther beyond her reach than she ever imagined. It is than she notices that two men in medical scrubs have moved to the passenger side door. He must read something in her eyes or the way she shifts uncomfortably in her seat belt because his eyes widen and he opens his mouth to say something as the car door clicks open.

She watches as arms slide under his suddenly limp ones, and his eyes never leave hers.

It isn't until they remove him from the car, and shut the door, does he stand ramrod still and look her straight in the eye.

“This is unnecessary.” He says after a large awkward swallow.

Molly wishes he had said anything else, and she turns away and the arms around him tighten and Sherlock flails against them.

“Wait!” She hears him scream out and she watches with a bit of masochism as his frail pale self fights against his restraints. A few months ago, he would have been able to take them out with no problem- now he can barely stay on his feet.

She bites her lip as he continues to scream curses. She hears a bloody hell. Let me go. I can walk. She even hears her name as they open the door, and his blue eyes meet hers for just a moment before he's shoved roughly inside. She thinks she hears an “I'm sorry” behind the shut door.

The amount of anguish she feels hit her like a collision and her breath catches in her throat as she stares to the doors of the facility, the little bit of her resolve breaking. She presses her forehead to the steering wheel and sobs wrack her body for what feels like an eternity before there is a soft tap on her window.

Her visions blurry as she turns her attention to the source of the noise and when she looks up, it is none other than Mycroft Holmes, and before she can think of how ridiculous what she's doing is, she unbuckles her seat belt and climbs out of the car and into his arms.

Molly Hooper cries against his chest and she knows he can feel the moisture of her tears and probably mucus against his three piece suit. He doesn't say anything as his ensemble gets ruined- he just lays a comforting awkward arm around her waste and pulls her in deeper. It doesn't last for more than a couple minutes before he gently pulls away, his eyes on anything but her.

“You're in no condition to drive. Allow me.” He says gesturing towards his black car a few feet away, just out of sight of the entrance.

“I..cant...Meena's car.” She says gesturing lamely to the vehicle behind her, wiping away at the tears running down her face.

“I'll take care of it.” he assures her, already walking in the direction towards his vehicle. She takes one last long look at the rehab facility before her. For some reason she cant put her finger on, this doesn't feel like a I'll see you later. It feels like goodbye.

She doesn't cry, and she doesn't run from it either. Instead she pulls her shoulders back, holds her head high and stares at the building with a type of indifference even Mycroft Holmes would praise.

“Goodbye Sherlock.” She says softly, and she ignores the soft tremble that trails up her spine as she turns away from the building and heads towards Mycroft's car.


	2. The Fall

She wouldn't say her and Mycroft were friends- _per'se_. But they were at least _friendly_.

It started with the Fall.

After Sherlock had came to her, looking more fragile and desperate than shed ever seen (excluding today of course- the image of his wild eyes and matted hair would haunt her for eternity, she was sure of it) She managed to piece together what he needed. He had figured what Jim -Moriarty- had expected him to do.

So, began project Lazarus.

It hadn't been complicated faking the records- that had been the easiest part of the whole ordeal and finding the body of the man Moriarty had used to terrorize the children hadn't been a huge feat either. No one else in the morgue even came close to matching Sherlock in coloring and physique.

She was merely a peg in the whole operation as she followed Sherlock to an abandoned overpass just in the underbelly of London. It hadn't been a comfortable walk- but if she had acted in a manner that displeased him, he had never bothered correcting it. She wasn't quite sure why he brought her as he talked to everyone in his homeless network in a group, and again one on one. (must be thorough Molly)

“Sherlock.-” Molly had said as he turned away from a thin blonde man, whose job was to be on a bicycle, ( a ruse needed to stall John from rushing to the corpse apparently.) He turned to her over a shoulder looking a cross between indifferent and amused she was only now choosing to speak up.

“The street is open to well- the public you're going to have eyes and ears and people you cant account for. It's not..” she paused unsure of how to continue. “It isn't just John.”

“Ah” He said a small smile playing over her lips.

(And she doesn't have to be a detective to see that he's enjoying this- playing the game)

“That Molly, is where my dear brother comes in.”

“Brother?” Her question goes unanswered though but as it turned out she didn't have long to wait.

She remembers the way his black car had pulled up- looking entirely out of place in such a dreary dark location. The man inside stepping out slowly revealing a long slender trouser leg and an umbrella cane. By the time he had completely emerged from the vehicle, exposing his posh three piece suit and his full height, Molly felt an odd feeling over familiarity wash over her. She watched with a morbid fascination as his brow furrowed at the location or perhaps the people that surrounded Sherlock- she couldn't tell but she felt herself stepping to the side and out from under his disinterested gaze as she too scanned the small crowd of Sherlock's Homeless Network.

(She now wonders how many of his homeless network were addicts and if perhaps that's not only where he got the drugs- but why they worked for him- )

It takes her a minute to place the familiarity before she realizes that she knows the posh-looking man before them. He had been the one to have Sherlock ID the woman- the...the faux Irene Adler (thank you John Watson for finally giving what's-her-face a name).

She swallows deeply as she remembers with jealousy how she had felt towards the corpse and the desperate question of how Sherlock had managed to recognize her from- not her face- and she remembers with a gut wrenching agony the smile this man gave her before turning away without a word.

It takes her another minute entirely to put the fact that this man she had that utter humiliation with, was in fact Sherlock's older brother.

“Please kill me now.” Molly muttered pressing a hand to her face in distraught, at the same time Sherlock turned to raise a confused brow in her direction.

“Fraid not Molly. The only one dying here is me- and we are trying merely to stage that- ”

She wonders if her humiliation will ever end with these Holmes, her face burning at least ten shades of red she's sure. Her tongue feels thick in her mouth, and she can feel both of their gazes on her reading and analyzing her discomfort in a thousand different ways. A few of the homeless network have shifted their gaze to her- and she can see a few snickers on a couple faces.

“Right.” She finally manages to squeak out at the same time Mycroft clears his throat and turns back towards Sherlock.

“It is unwise to insult her intelligence brother-mine. She is after all putting her neck on the line for you.”

Sherlock s face twists in annoyance for a moment, before his gaze meets Molly's.

“I'm sorry. Forgive me.”

The words reminded her briefly of Christmas and while she thinks she should feel some type of assurance that she does in fact count, the only thing she feels is oddly hollow. All she can think is that earlier, hours earlier had merely been a rouse to get her here- to this moment.

She's not sure what it is that comes over her next, she doesn't have a name for it but she chooses to ignore Sherlock and instead direct her attention to his older brother, if nothing else he's at least the most civil of the two.

“And what can you do about assuring that my neck stays secure Mr. Holmes?”

His eyes widen just the slightest as he stares down to her before raising one of his very thin expressive brows.

“Whatever you need, all you need is to ask, Miss Hooper.”

.

Lazarus comes and goes, as well as her interaction with Sherlock.

It had been a week since Sherlock had stood in front of her bedroom window, a gloved hand cupping her cheek as he stared into her eyes. Her breath was caught in her throat as she stared into his big expressive blue eyes, and for an odd moment, she really thought he was going to kiss her.

“You were flawless, Molly Hooper.” He had whispered softly, before giving her that pained smile that made her heart clench and her knees weak. “I'll be in touch.”

And just like that Sherlock Holmes left out of her bedroom window, and out of her life to go dismantle a network of Moriarty's murderers.

It didn't take Molly long to realize she had perhaps over-estimated herself.

She goes to the funeral wearing a simple black dress with her hair pulled back in a pony tail, and stands towards the back as to not draw attention to herself- but rather to be here and barely noticed, than to be absent and raise suspicion.

She sees John first in the first row, his shoulders are hunched and his posture is drastically distorted. It appears as if his body is just waiting to cave in on itself, and its concerning for the stick straight posture she associates with him. Her heart aches in a way she didnt expect at the sight of him. She had her hand in doing that. The guilt starts with a small tug as she watches the way John sobs and the way Miss Hudson sniffles and soothes large circles in the center of his back.

It gets worse when she sees Lestrade, standing towards the left of the gathering. He doesn't look wrecked like John, but instead he looks absolutely lost. His face is pale, and he worries the skin around where his wedding band use to rest. If Sherlock hadn't been around throwing it in his face the adamant cheating behavior of his (ex wife?) she would have never even noticed the ring was missing. He doesnt know where to look, or what to do- and he stands there with everyone- and away from everyone, floundering.

She scans the crowd looking for his friends, and if she's honest- she's looking for him too. Because Sherlock Holmes is as ego-centric as they come, and who alive wouldn't come watch their own funeral, if not to at least say goodbye to their loved ones?

But she doesn't see Sherlock. In fact, she doesn't see Mycroft for that matter either.

Her heart clenches with panic as she looks again from the left to the right, wont people know? John at the very least would know wouldn't he? His presence should be noticeable to him if no one else.

She doesn't fret on it to long as she pays attention to the service but as the crowd thins and she gets a very good look at John and Ms. Hudson she realizes with a sick fear that she can not go forward and weep with them.

She gave up that right for them, so her conscious would have to suffer. Molly Hooper would be damned if she betrayed any of them- let alone the man she just risked neck and limb for.

So she leaves before she has something else to add to her list of regrets.

The funeral is only the first hurdle she realizes.

The strain of her silence intensifies every time DI Lestrade came into the lab with a smile that didn't reach his eyes, asking how she's been and how she's fairing. She stutters, “I'm managing...how are you?” She doesn't want to ask because she can plainly see the distress that rolls off him, but Molly is nothing if not polite- so she does. He tells her about his demotion, his ex wife and that despite all his progress he's smoking again than he goes on to apologize for telling her all of those things to begin with.

It's another nail in her coffin.

And every time she's not runing into Greg- she's running into Ms. Hudson at the grocery- the old woman's eyes glossy with barely repressed tears and “how are you dears?” She promises to come by, at some point, but she can never get past John Watson who lingers outside the front door of 221 B Baker Street also unable to go in.

So she begins changing her routine. She volunteers to teach interns to avoid Lestrade in the morgue. She changes markets to avoid running into Miss Hudson, and she makes sure none of her routes cross 221 B Baker Street- ever again.

The ache however, with her new routine doesn't lessen the pain.

If anything, it makes her feel worse.

She has nightmares that leave her heart thrumming in her chest and her sheets drenched in sweat. The guilt, anxiety and agony reach critical levels when Stamford calls her into his office with a couple of directors to discuss the medical records regarding Sherlock Holmes autopsy.

It's that night that Mycroft Holmes makes his first- of several monthly appearances.

.

“What are you thinking?” Mycroft asks and she blinks abruptly turning her gaze from the window to the man whom she's known for years and yet still barely seems to know at all. He's like Sherlock in that regard. So close, and still so far out of reach.

“The Fall.” she says turning her gaze back to the window- not expecting him to ask anything else. It isn't exactly in his nature to hash out things of the past, though he had told her a riveting tale about Sherlock wanting to be a pirate when he was younger, _once._

“Why?” He says seemingly surprised, a little crinkle forming in his brow and another right above his nose. She notices out of her peripheral, and its in moments like these- she can see the resemblance between him and Sherlock. She wont say it though, she just sighs not wanting to get into it with him of all people.

She can feel his gaze on her before a shift in his seat followed by a short “Ah.”

“You're wondering if I will feel indebted to you as I did back than.” The tone of the words betrays the disinterest in her face, and she turns to give him his attention, earnestly now. It's not like the trees rolling by outside the car are going to answer any of her hopes anyway.

“No.” she says softly. “Not quite. I was wondering if I might see you...occasionally.” She swallows nervously, her eyes darting down to her hands, her feet, towards the window. She'd rather look at anything but him while she forces herself to confess to insecurities she knows he can already see. “Like before. You always seemed to come when I felt...well, you know. I was just...I never expressed how grateful I was for that.”

“No, but I believe I expressed how grateful I was in regards to your help with my brother. It was...the least I could do to return the favor.”

“I see.” her words come out slow as if testing them, her tongue runs over her lower lip in discomfort and she feels a sudden onslaught of pressure behind her eyes.

(Don't you dare cry Molly Hooper. Don't you dare.)

“You're my ally remember?” His voice is surprisingly soothing for him, and when she looks up to meet his face- she finds that he has turned his gaze out the window, holding his head with a hand, the other curled tight around the handle of his umbrella.

She swallows back the emotion and nods.

Mycroft Holmes is probably the only other person in the world who understands what it feels like to be dismissed by Sherlock Holmes. No, dismissed isn't exactly a strong enough word. But it's the only word that comes to mind.

And it's not that Sherlock Holmes doesn't dismiss everyone, because it isn't.

It's how he goes about it.

The distinction is so clear that even Moriarty was able to see it in a limited amount of time.

Greg, John and Ms. Hudson were different. They mattered. They mattered in a way she didn't really understand. The others seemed to fill something in Sherlock- something that Mycroft and her could never, despite their best attempts, contort themselves small enough to fit into.

That was probably why she adored Mycroft, if she was honest with herself. Because unrequited love, no matter the type, was by far the most excruciating.

She smiles as she tentatively lays her hand over top of his closed one and turns her gaze towards the window, allowing herself and hopefully the man next to her this one, small comfort.

“Yes, I am your ally.” she responds softly.

It's not as uncomfortable as she thought it would be, resting her hand on top of his. He doesn't stiffen or move to pull her away- which surprises her. She tries to feel any tremors or twitches of discomfort beneath her palm or at the ends of her fingers but is pleased to find she doesn't. She steals a glance at his face, and he looks...surprisingly relaxed.

She tries to sort through the memories and conversations they've exchanged over tea- and one particular instance wine- but she cant recall a moment he's ever looked even remotely comfortable with her. He was always so stiff, wearing his three piece suits as if they were armor instead of clothing.

“This is his fifth time at this particular facility.” Mycroft says his voice void of all emotion, but she can tell- the same way she can tell with Sherlock. It's a little bit unsure, and almost hard to notice- but the corners of his lips turn down in a way that doesn't resemble sadness but rather disappointment.

“Why not ...try another facility?” She prods gently and she wonders vaguely if asking will cause him to retreat back into himself.

“This is the only one he has not successfully broken out of.”

He sighs his other hand moving to grasp at his bridge of his long nose in frustration.

“Mummy is going to be most insufferable.”

Instead of responding she runs her thumb in small slow circles on the back of his hand, its meant to be a comforting gesture- but she realizes her mistake when he turns to face her directly. His eyes are hard and she doesn't have to be a genius to read his expression _What do you think you are doing?_

 _Shite._ She thinks to herself mortified. _You've done it this time Molly. You've practically molested Mycroft Holmes. Stupid, stupid girl!_

She withdrawals her hand slowly and folds it in her lap just as his phone pings. He flips it open and clicks a few times before turning to face her, just as the car rolls to a stop outside of her flat.

“My assistant has successfully returned Miss Blakes vehicle.”

“Thank you.” Molly says quietly, her hand reaching towards the door handle desperate to put some much needed space between them. Humiliation cradles her like a cloak and she fumbles with the handle twice before she manages to pull it open.“For everything.” Shes grateful that at least this time she isn't stuttering.

It isn't until she's made it to the door of her flat when she notices the window of the car has been pulled down, revealing what seems to be a slightly amused Mycroft Holmes.

“Have a good day Miss Hooper.” He pauses as if he's considering his next words carefully. “I'll be in touch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and Kudos fuel the muse  
> Feel free to throw them my way.  
> They are always appreciated.


	3. The Dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delay loverlies, life has been throwing me some curve balls lately- but I managed to finish this chapter up.  
> Forgive the abrupt ending however. Hopefully it doesnt take away from the bulk of it.  
> As always, all errors are mine-  
> I apologize for them well in advance.

She was asleep when she felt the sensation of something trailing across her stomach. Her mind is muddled and she fights the urge to ignore the sensation- her brain foggy with sleep. She almost succeeds when she feels a warm open mouthed kiss placed on her inner thigh. The onslaught of arousal that floods through her and makes her gasp, fingers reaching out to tangle fingers in dark curls.

“Sherlock.” She sputters blinking the sleep from her eyes and sitting up awkwardly glancing down to the man between her legs, a needle running over a vein in her leg, panic seizes her as she struggles to get away from him.

“S'kay Molly. S'not for you.” His voice sounds slurred slightly, and she wonders how high he must be right now.

“Sherlock.” She says softly her voice trembling, tears burning in her eyes. “ Don't. It'll kill you. It's to much.” 

He seems to regard her for a second, turning his head to the side as if trying to see her from another angle. She uses the pause to hold out her own arm next to his- and she's startled to see the difference in shades and damage. His arms are bone thin, ghost white and his veins are so...damaged in comparison to hers. His arms littered with track marks, were they truly this bad yesterday?

“I'll do it.” she says frantically, taking out the rubber band [a make shift hair tie- wait- when did she put her hair up?] and cutting off her circulation frantically tapping to make her vein easily accessible. She's desperate looking at him and the needle that is hovering just above his skin- the tip pressing lazily into a miserable looking vein. She bites her lip and his blue eyes are dilated and she cant tell if its from the drugs or her desperation.

He pauses looking towards her, a frown crossing his lips and his brow furrowing in confusion. She's not sure what he's deducing and instead of speaking, he presses his lips to the protruding vein in the junction of her arm- the needle sliding wordlessly into his flesh.

“No.” she whispers, the tears running down her face freely now as she watches his face tighten strangely. 

“Forgive me, Molly Hooper.” He manages, the weight of his body falling heavily onto her small form.

.  
She wakes with a start, her hands frantically searching across the bed for Sherlock, and realizes as the panic begins to subside- that it was in fact- just a dream. That he's safe inside the facility, but still the unease in her gut makes her feel ill. She picks up her phone with shaky hands, it's 3:30am- an ungodly hour to be calling anyone, let alone Mycroft Holmes.

She sighs, setting the phone back down on the end table softly and tries to ignore the anxiety that has bloomed in her chest.

“It's just a dream.” She whispers in hopes to calm herself before stealing another glance at her cell phone and with unsteady hands she picks it up and opens a text message to none other than Mycroft Bloody Holmes. 

But what would you say exactly? Oh sorry to bother you but I had this unrelenting urge to inform you I had a dream about your brother shooting up over top of me- naked nonetheless! Would you mind being able to tell me of his status, oh and while you're at it could you refer me to a therapist? Please and thank you. 

Molly shook her head, no- better not do that. 

So instead she lay back onto her bed and turning her gaze towards the ceiling resting her phone against her chest, before picking it back again and staring at the 3:45 written tauntingly across her screen. She knows with the impeding dread on her mind and the anxiety matted in her chest that she will be getting no more sleep tonight. 

“Oh Well..” she mutters softly to herself sliding out of the bed unhappily, careful not to step on Toby as she makes her way to her kitchen to start the coffee pot. “Four hours of sleep is better than none at all I suppose.” 

.

It's 6:30AM when her phone begins to vibrate across the kitchen table. She stares at it warily as she forces herself to swallow down the cheerios she just put in her mouth. The number isn't one she recognizes and she answers the phone with hesitance.

“Hello.” She says uncertainly, stirring the contents of her cereal in a poor attempt to calm her already frayed nerves.

“Morning Molly. I didn't wake you did I?”

She pauses blinking rapidly as she stares at her phone, since when did Mary Watson call her?

She lets her spoon fall into her bowl with a soft clump as she moves to rise to a stand. It didn't make any sense- she was Johns friend- purely through association with Sherlock- and she's hardly ever traded more than a handful of words with his wife. 

“No. No, its fine.” Molly starts trying to get her brain to work around the flood of concern that is coursing through her. “I've been up for hours actually, what can uhm, what can I do for you Mary?”

“I know this is short notice.” She says slowly, and Molly can tell Mary is putting a lot of thought into what she wants to reveal to her. “But John and I were wondering if you were able to watch Lizzie for...a little while today. Miss Hudson is visiting her sister as you know and, its rather urgent you see and, well most importantly.” She pauses clearing her throat. “You're the only other person we can trust with our daughter.” 

“It's Sherlock isn't it?” She says startled at the tone of her own voice. But when Mary doesn't answer- Molly's been around enough to know that no answer is as good as an answer. “What happened Mary?”

There's a long pause before Mary says her voice dropping down to a whisper. “It's not good Molly.” Molly waits for her to go and when she doesn't, she knows she isn't going to get any more from the woman on the other end of the phone.

“Of course.” She says softly. “Of course I'll watch Lizzie.” 

She expects Mary to rattle off a list of expectancies, to tell her what time she will be there, or where she would like Molly to meet her. She doesn't expect the choked sob and “Thank you.” she gets from the woman on the other end of the phone before it is quickly disconnected. 

.  
Mary arrives with Lizzie, about fifteen minutes later just as Molly finishes tying the braid into her hair. She takes the babbling child from Mary's arms as Mary gently moves past the two of them and sets the diaper bag on the kitchen counter, before moving to stand in front of her daughter and planting a loving kiss on her forehead.

“Molly will take great care of you my sweet girl.” Mary coos before turning to face Molly. Molly tries to offer her a smile, but it wavers and instead she looks down to the perfectly tiny happy little girl in her arms. “You have my number now right?” Mary adds hovering, her eyes fixated on Molly so severely she can feel them without having to look up. 

“Yes...Go on.” Molly urges, her eyes still fixed on Lizzie, as she turns her gaze up to Mary.  
[Pocket the pain Hooper] “She's safe with me.”

Mary nods knowingly, pausing in the frame of the door to take one last look at the two of them.  
“All I know is Sherlock was transported to a hospital early this morning. John all but fled the house at the news, when I know more- you'll know more. You have my word.” 

The visions of the needle from her dream pound behind her eyelids and she knows, she just knows he over dosed. But she manages to squeak out a thank you as Mary closes the door softly behind her. 

She settles down on the couch with Lizzie and runs her fingers absently through the child's light hair, a smile brimming her lips and an ache wrapping around her chest. The little girl has Mary's nose and John's eyes- a perfect blend of the two. The ache grows. She'll never have that will she? 

In another life she thinks maybe it played out differently. Maybe he would have pressed tender kisses upon her lips instead of goodbye kisses on her cheek. Maybe he would have said yes to coffee and no to drugs. Maybe he would have given her beautiful children with beautiful black curls, sparkling blue eyes, and her nose. 

But not this one. She cradles Lizzie to her chest gently. This one. She is completely and entirely alone.

.

It's only an hour later when Mycroft Holmes shows up at her door.

He doesn't say anything as he enters the flat, and while she wants to demand answers- she also doesn't. Instead she focuses on the bundle of joy in her arm and places a kiss on little Lizzie Watson's nose. She looks up at her adoringly, little fingers wrapping around her braid.

“Tea?” She asks absently, her eyes briefly meeting his own before turning her attention back to Lizzie. 

“No. Thank you.” He pauses for a moment, his eyes sweeping over her form. 

“Motherhood looks good on you.”

She snaps her head to look up at him causing the tug on her hair to sharpen and a grimace to flash across her features. 

“N-no that's not uhm. Something...” the words get stuck in her throat and for half a moment she seems to go somewhere else, and when she comes back she is somehow more composed. “That's not exactly feasible is it?”

“There's no reason for it to be, even if you are physically unable there's quite a bit of options out there- if you would like I could procure you a-”

“No!” She exclaims and wincing at the baby's wet wide eyes. “Oh I'm so sorry love, don't fuss. I'm here-” she sways a bit turning towards Mycroft as Lizzie puckers her lower lip,a small tremble away from a cry. “No, I- I appreciate the gesture, but no...Id theoretically like a family I just...it doesn't seem to be in the cards is all. It's...its fine. “

He stares at her for a moment a soft distant look on his face, and she wonders where exactly he's going- what Lizzie may represent for him. Did the “ice-man” (referred to by Sherlock and John on an occasion or two) long for a family too? The thought lingers for a moment more before she asks, albeit a bit awkwardly. “Would you like to hold her?”

He pauses for a moment, looks like he's about to reject, and she decides not to give him the opportunity, gently setting Lizzie into stiff arms. He looks pale and a bit shocked for a moment before adjusting the child into the crook of his arms, a complete natural.

“You're quite good.” Molly says finally finding her voice, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

“Muscle memory perhaps.” Mycroft says idly. “Though it's been quite some time since I've held a child.”

She's not sure where it comes from but the question comes out before she has the mind to stop it. “Sherlock?”

Mycroft doesn't say anything for a moment, and after a minute she finds she really didn't expect him too. His shoulders have stiffened but Lizzie's eyes have closed and Molly's quite sure she's going to go to sleep nestled right up against Mycroft Holmes.

“Yes.” He says finally though when it comes out his voice is tight. “He would only sleep for me.”

It's silent for another moment, but not longer before his eyes shift towards her bedroom door. “Do you have somewhere set up for her to lay down?”

“Uhm yes in my-”

“Yes- I can manage.” Mycroft says slowly crossing into her room and disappearing from view, and when he comes back alone- his features look a little less tight, relaxed in an almost pained expression. She bites her lip trying to stop the question- but it's a pointless gesture because once he's within arms length it comes out almost involuntarily. 

“Mycroft...tell me what's wrong?”

His eyes widen just slightly in surprise, and he opens his mouth to speak but nothing comes out.- and he presses his mouth together tightly in a line. She watches as his Adams apple bobs slightly as he swallows back whatever sentiment he thinks he's feeling and responds in his usual collective manner.

“You're as intuitive as ever Miss Hooper.” 

“What happened to Sherlock?” she says softly crossing the distance between them, she can feel the heat radiating from his skin she's so close. She didn't just touch his bubble- she was effectively invading it. “What did he do?”

“He had planned for this, obviously. Why else would he have gone willingly? He had obtained someone from his homeless network a very minor janitorial position- needless to say he over dosed early this morning.” 

Molly wishes she was able to deduce the Holmes the same way they could deduce everyone else. Mycroft's voice is as dismissive as always, the resemblances of disappointment no longer reflecting in his eyes. And while she cant pin-point what it is. She knows she's missing something- some variable for the barely contained dare she say- anger- in his eyes. 

She bites her lip, eyes running over his features, before she proceeds cautiously.

“Hes fine though.”

“Tentatively speaking.”

“What did he do to you?” 

He raises an eyebrow, but she doesn't give him the chance to change the subject, dismiss her, or even offer a rebuttal. Instead, she looks him square in the eyes, takes a deep breath and continues. “You aren't with him. There's a reason. Why?” 

It's like a storm cloud washes over his features, his eyes darkening and his mouth literally twitches with disgust before he turns to the side- unable to hold her gaze. “He spit on me.” He says finally, the word spit coming out more like a curse than a verb. His voice cracks over it and the anger pours through his lips barely contained. 

The intake of breath is sharp, and she closes the remaining distance by putting a hand on his forearm. She stares at her hand upon his well tailored button up shirt for a moment before raising her gaze to his eyes staring at her over his pointed nose. 

“He didn't mean it.” Her voice comes out a whisper. 

“Yes.” He says his voice equally low and soft. “He did.” 

It's not that she never saw Mycroft as a human being. It's not that she bought into the whole iceman thing- because she didn't. It's just that she cant recall a time she's ever seen him look so vulnerable. Her mind scrambles to find something to compare it too and she ends up drawing a blank. The moment between the two of them is far to raw and far to intimate to process, and so she does what she does best. She ruins it reflexively. 

“I had a dream he did.” The words are abrupt and awkward and startling, but all Mycroft does is raise a brow- his cold eyes piercing hers. The look is enough to make her prattle on in hopes to alleviate the tension that has begun to coil in her chest- her hand never leaving his forearm. “Over-dosed. I woke up at 3:30 and, it took everything I had not to call you. Oh god. Why did I just say that?”

“The universe is rarely so lazy.” He mutters, taking a step away from her, her arm falling limply back to her side. 

“what?”

“It just so happens Miss Hooper that 3:30 exactly is when I was informed of Sherlock's overdose. What are the odds?”

“I'm not-”

“Rhetorical. Though I would say about 1 in 1,000.”

“You are...”

She doesn't get to finish her sentence because a moment later Mycroft Holmes phone goes off and he excuses himself without as much as a goodbye.


End file.
